


And I Will Protect You from the Horrors of the World

by Artist_in_Space



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Crowley's Emotional Support Angel, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Gen, M/M, No angst tbh Crowley just gets a bit worried about emotional stuff, One-Shot, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Supportive Aziraphale (Good Omens), Worried Crowley (Good Omens), and Aziraphale is there to be with him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:22:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23373853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artist_in_Space/pseuds/Artist_in_Space
Summary: Usually when it was physically saving, it was Crowley doing the legwork for Aziraphale. However, for emotional support, it was the other way around.(For a being who asked too many questions about everything, it was everything.)And it was always, always perfect.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 88





	And I Will Protect You from the Horrors of the World

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative title is called "When Your Heart Sings, I Will Come to You" but that sounds wayy cheesy and this is cheesy enough asldlkajdladm so here it is!
> 
> Usually it's Crowley doing the saving in the series, but we see Aziraphale literally be his pillar to keep on going. I just love that :D

**1\. Rome, 41 A.D  
**

Crowley was a visitor in Rome, and he _loathed_ being here. He _hates_ being here. Not that Rome personally did anything to earn his ire, because Greece did. Or, well, the emperor of Greece did. He was plenty bad already, Crowley just had to watch from afar to see his deeds and take credit.

Last thing he’d heard from gossip, he was going to execute his…

So yes. He was in a grumpy mood because he didn’t even have to do _anything_ and he felt like absolute crap.

“Give me the strongest thing that you’ve got,” he ordered the worker, who took one look at him and rolled her eyes. Yes, he knew he dressed like a man-shaped being who just passed by. Of course he was. He just needed a drink.

The drink was slid to him before he heard a familiar voice pipe up inquiringly—and interestingly, delighted.

“Cra—Crowley!” Aziraphale, the spiffy angel who had a gold winged brooch (which wasn’t subtle at all) complemented the white toga he was wearing. Of course, there was the crown on his head, and against his will, his mouth did that little twitch it does when seeing the angel.

The angel did a little wiggle. “Fancy!”

He raised his eyebrow in greeting, but didn’t speak.

“Er, how are you?” Aziraphale, the polite angel that he was, asked hesitantly. “…Still a demon, then?”

He slammed his cup down, which earned him a dirty look from the barista. “What do you mean, _still a demon then?”_ He goggled at how ridiculous the question was—tried to think why the bloody hell would the angel even _ask_ that at all—and stamped down the notion that it might be because of a certain son of Hers. Still a touchy subject.

Instead of voicing his incredulity, he hissed, “What do you think I’d be, an _aardvark?”_

It earned him a small _tut tut_ that the angel did whenever he was exasperated. “I was only asking, dear boy. You looked quite—harangued, if I say so myself. Let me tempt you to—“

He twisted his body to meet the angel’s blubbering _oh that’s your job_ defense, which he didn’t really need, but it made him smile.

 _Yeah, it’s my job to tempt, weirdly enough,_ Crowley thought as he let the not-awkward silence take its toll on the angel. His glow—angelic or not, he didn’t know—was dimming then reddening, embarrassment showing through. _Well if I can’t tempt an emperor…_

Raising his cup, he drew out his hook. “I’ve never eaten an oyster.” He tilted his head towards a table where the not-really-appetizing oysters were, and mentally said, _line._

He turned his body towards the angel. _Sinker._

“Would you like to…?” Aziraphale murmured, a small flitting on his face, in that unsure way of his. Crowley liked to see it more often especially now.

“Why not.” Removing himself from his perch, he followed the angel’s joyful steps, feeling leagues better than he did just a while ago.

**\--**

**2\. Somewhere in Europe, 1405**

Crowley hated summoning rituals as much as the next demon, but then the next demon was a demon named _Vasadrea_ who loved pranking humans into giving their souls to her. She was effective and active at this time of the century.

She was also a blabbermouth, so Crowley wasn’t able to invoke the Arrangement for a while.

Especially _now,_ when he needed someone— _trusted,_ and that burned his tongue long ago but damn it, he trusted the angel. He didn’t trust her by any mile and it would be a weird world to live in a universe that had demons trusting each other.

It was nigh impossible.

(However, there was the concept of _ineffability,_ damn you Aziraphale for teaching him this world, because—

Well… while he wasn’t _sure,_ he was pretty okay with the fact that he and the angel might have a strange frie—agreement of sorts. Mutual beneficial.

The Arrangement was precariously new, but they did a good job at the last few requests here and there, if he says so himself.)

She was doing so _bloody_ well apparently that they were going to teach her method to other demons, and Crowley can only bide _tchuss_ to his sweet project in Germany (it was a pyramid scam that can bring forth suffering to a rich person when done right) as he was whisked away to Hell.

In the end, he wanted to say that it was boring, but it was the opposite. It made him squeamish. He was never a demon for luring a soul through a blood pact and killing them _and_ their family for trying to get out of a contract. But that’s what Vasadrea did, and by the past year alone, she’s racked a hundred and twenty souls. It was already a big number—because all of her victims were contract holders, and they somehow all died in the same year.

He was more of a Seven Deadly Sins type of demon. He utilized those through temptation. This was…yes, it _was_ in line, but he wanted some imagination, not the human’s own way of destroying their lives. Also, innocents were involved. It wasn’t demonic, it was just plain hellish.

(He was bad, that way.)

He carried the cloud of misery and disgust with him unknowingly—everyone suddenly found their clothes switched around in clotheslines, or maybe their horses were becoming wild and they couldn’t calm them down until they waved food in front of them. His steps scorched the earth, which gathered curious onlookers, but they soon forgot the phenomena with the figure trailing Crowley from behind.

Someone fell in step with him as he ventured to the next town over, and he lashed out his sword involuntarily.

The angel parried the blow easily. “Hello to you too, Crowley.” Aziraphale greeted despite the hostility.

Not in the mood for any games—because they might get caught by Vasadrea—he interjected, _“Why are you here Azssiraphale?”_

“Smelled a lot of sulfur, and felt a major disturbance from a country away, my dear. See my surprise when I see that people literally have their utensils being cursed into alternate ones in their hands, or finding out that their milk had become cheese. I knew it was you from kilometers away.” His eyes softened, and Crowley grumbled even more. “…Crowley? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t need to tell you.” He muttered, and that was true enough. They invoked the Arrangement when needed, checked each other’s statuses if needed, and didn’t gossip (until they got _very_ drunk and thus blabbered on until the night turned to day). Since his visit to Hell and orientation was something that the angel didn’t need to know, he pursed his lips and looked away. “Not your business.”

Aziraphale regarded him with a look—and Crowley angled his face away even more, because despite the shades on his glasses, the angel has had experience deciphering his looks long before. He might be a little bit slow on the uptake or might be a little obtuse, but his heart is well-meaning and he had a knack for breaking down topics into its very core.

Aziraphale might suddenly gain the skill to deconstruct him and construct his expression by a glance alone, and he wouldn’t want to risk that because of his awful luck.

He was so into his thoughts that he might’ve missed the angel’s response, but he knew he heard it correctly.

“What?” He blinked, looking at the angel.

“Alright then.” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “I said, ‘alright’. It’s a new term they’re commonly using nowadays.”

“I know that, angel.” He murmured, and he ignored the feeling in his chest when he saw Aziraphale relax, even for a moment. It seemed that the angel had been quite unsure at confronting him—which was a smart thing to do, sometimes the angel forgot to check if what he was doing was safe at all—and it was only now was he able to release the tension. “I just. You don’t need to know, but I want to know why you’re here.”

“I told you.” Aziraphale tilted his head. “I felt the disturbance. I thought it was a demon, probably that Vasadrea demon—“

He stilled, and whirled to face the angel up close, eyes flashing wildly. “ _You_ know _Vasadrea?”_

To his credit, Aziraphale barely looked spooked at the action, though there was a trace of surprise. “Yes. It’s my job, you know,” he looked at him blandly. “—to thwart demons’ wiles, my dear? I don’t think I need to remind you.”

Cheeky angel, it suited him sometimes but it did _not_ right now. “Have you met her up close?” He hissed, feeling something awful crawling in his gut. Something akin to fear, but it _wasn’t_ fear, but bloody hell, it was heavy. “Did she…”

He didn’t want Aziraphale to meet that god awful woman-shaped demon. She was dangerous, great at temptations. And Aziraphale, who might be absolutely righteous on a bad day and downright bastardly fun on a good day, shouldn’t meet those kinds of demons.

(The feeling in his gut was coiling now, as if his animal form wanted to shield the angel from her wiles.)

Aziraphale searched his face—and now it was plain and open for him to see. Crowley hoped it was something that conveyed something across the lines of _you’re ridiculous_ or maybe even _I think I understand._

But the angel gave a better one—a gentle smile—which eased his worries. “No, my dear boy.” He placated. “Bits and pieces of stories get carried around, I’m afraid. Missing families are reported to landlords and there’s so much I could only do to save those lured into the trap, but I try to save the innocents.” He sighed. “It’s quite a slog, if I do say so myself. However, I’m getting there.” His smile was wobbly.

(The coiling snake-like feeling in his gut was trying to tell him something now.

 _Tell him,_ it chanted. _Say thanks._

 _Or invoke the Arrangement,_ it whispered.

 _He will understand,_ it reassured.

Crowley could only do one thing among the three.)

“That woman is a blasted piece of scum, Aziraphale,” he—kind of confessed, but that sounds like that Repent Thing the church had going on—so he _said truthfully._ “I want to stop her from doing those, and it ssssucks, that she’ssss getting a commendation with the amount of innocents she’s playing it. She dragged an elderly father to save his son, who wanted to buy a patch of land to earn money. Hell believes in contracts but Hell punishes the _sinner_ and by the contract even _innocents_ can be pulled in and Hell is none the wiser—”

He shuddered, swerving to lean on a tree. “I’m a demon but the father was out of the contract, and I tried to save him. If you saw, if you saw—“

He paused when he felt a hand settle on his shoulder, a warm touch that seemed to try to convey several things at once. He didn’t understand whatever those were, so he raised his gaze to meet the angel’s, and found himself quivering.

He was never afraid of this angel. Not even when he was sword fighting in the olden days.

Apparently, _especially,_ now.

Aziraphale looked at him straight in the eyes, and bowed his head. “Invoke the Arrangement, my dear.” He murmured.

Crowley’s gaze turned cold, and damn it, _this was exactly what he didn’t want._ “No.”

“Invoke.” Aziraphale raised his head, eyes blazing in that passionate way of his that wasn’t purely angelic, but all Aziraphale. “The Arrangement.”

“Is that a threat?” He asked, but his voice shook. He wanted this badly, wanted to remove that woman from Earth because the world was entering into a dangerous phase yet again. The idea of colonialism was very high and trendy. More innocents getting hurt would probably be the effect, and he wasn’t rooting for an understanding between status quos (again!) or whatsoever for another century in estimate.

Demonic summonings that preyed innocents? He didn’t need those.

“I’m not afraid of her.” Aziraphale said, honestly and reassuringly. “I’ve always been afraid of Hell. If you’ve been trying to stop her, you know that Hell could…” He lowered his head a little. “I’m on safer grounds. I can plan, my dear, I won’t be reckless. Trust me. Invoke the Arrangement.”

Crowley _did_ trust Aziraphale, even if the angel trusted too much in the ‘good’ of Heaven and Her sometimes. But the angel was also a bastard who knew how to do Hell’s tasks when needed, and knew how to tempt. He thought that maybe Aziraphale was trying it as well right now, but unconsciously.

There was always something tempting about the angel, but Crowley could never pinpoint why.

(The feeling in his gut warmed all over, spreading throughout his body. _Trust him,_ it chanted.)

He didn’t have to think twice.

“I invoke the Arrangement,” he whispered, and this moment felt important, felt like the tides were… shifting. “One demonic act with an angelic one in return.”

Aziraphale regarded him with a look, and nodded. “I’ll see to it, Crowley.”

He removed the hand on his shoulder, and Crowley’s gaze followed the action. He looked back at the troubled—yet determined face that Aziraphale was pulling. “Doubts, angel?” He asked, because he knew that the angel would not back down when pushed onto a platform to do something _good._ “You don’t have to, you know that.”

Aziraphale sent him another smile that cooled all of his worries, and tempered all of the doubts in his mind, even for a second. Even for a second, it felt like vindication—to send this angel to discorporate that bitch.

“Not at all.” He smirked, and Crowley thought, _this is going to be good._ “Not at all, Crowley.”

-

Months after, he checked his mail and was surprised that he got a commendation for exposing Vasadrea’s treason while being able to bind the souls who accepted the deeds to his name.

 _Well_ , he thought with a smile. He’s sure it was enough of a miracle in return when he mended a broken family together.

It felt like victory, too.

**\--**

**3\. France, 1765**

In the future, everyone that crosses paths with the demon Crowley would learn that he did _not_ like the to-be-named United States of America.

He wasn’t “officially” a UK-citizen at this moment, more like a traveler in Europe backpacking everywhere. France was getting inspired by the young whims of the to-be-nation, and the UK was doing a lot of war going on there. Crowley wanted to stay at the down low, but apparently Hell had other tasks for him to do.

_Foment destruction in the XXXX._

Which was just Hell-speak for the “New World” that Europe called. Or the West. Or from Amerigo Vespucci’s “The Americas”.

He took a peek and ducked out of the way immediately. Twats were using _cannonballs on ships_ to blast their enemies, and double-spying spies and making war tactics that he was pretty sure an average demon wouldn’t create. He admired their ingenuity and tenacity, but wow, humanity was unstable.

After he witnessed too many deaths by musket, he’d been laying low for a while, in a small tavern in the provinces of France since he needed a breather. Quaint and quiet, not a lot of people, and there were a lot of sheep. Innocent sheep, and a dog, and shepherd.

A little black sheep wandered to a white one, and the white one paid him no heed. Or was friends with him. The shepherd was laughing at them, since the other black sheep and white sheep then started getting noisy. But didn’t separate them.

There was a metaphor there somewhere, and Crowley was purposefully being obtuse.

The thoughts that wandered in his mind weren’t however, because they were painfully real and _felt_ real.

War wasn’t the best thing that he’d ever experienced. It was the worst, next to the Fall. The Fall was a bit personal, hence the high rating. The War was a reminder however of defeat—though not _really_ defeat, at least he didn’t die—and the inexistence of Free Will that time.

The to-be United States of America was a cesspool of people who had Free Will in excess and not at the same time. It was a headache. He knew where it could lead if their leaders weren’t competent enough. He could see it already, because if the shepherd was a dick and the dog was a vicious fucker, then the pe—sheep would get into a mess. Then he’s going to get that commendation for a good fomentation of sin because he’d take credit.

He wanted to throw up. He _hated_ it.

“You’re thinking too much again, my dear.”

He worked his jaw and turned around to see his adversary, standing on the outer side of the tavern fence. His hair and general get-up the same as he did last time, which would’ve annoyed Crowley, but they’ve known each other already for five thousand years. He admires the dedication even if it’s exasperating.

Though, he spotted the new bowtie.

“Nice bowtie,” he said in lieu of greeting the angel. He got a huff in return, which made him grin. “Got tired with the _last_ tartan bow tie?”

“Serpent,” Aziraphale threw back, but never without bite. Instead, he had a bright smile on his face, like he wanted to see Crowley again. Which wasn’t fine, they were _enemies, bloody dang it._

Yeah, he wasn’t convincing himself.

“I thought I should drop by,” Aziraphale murmured, walking around and sitting next to him on the wooden bench. “Wanted to ask you…”

“I’m fine.” He murmured, knowing the question already. It’s been a custom for these visits. “Been an awful day at work.”

“Humans too stubborn?” Aziraphale suggested, raising his hand to order something, Crowley didn’t know. Maybe soup. “Or humans too rambunctious?”

“Humans being humans.” Crowley admitted crossly. He pressed his fingers on the table. “Was assigned to the West.”

Aziraphale winced in sympathy. “I heard they were reaching for a revolution. The King isn’t pleased.” He turned to give his order to the waitress, who told them it’d take a few minutes or so. The angel didn’t mind.

Crowley also didn’t, because that’s just more time with the angel. Which he definitely didn’t like.

“Anyone losing power wouldn’t be,” Crowley pointed out after the waitress left. “But he’s a bag of cats, that wanker. I don’t even know how the UK performs as it is, but I guess that’s how humans are.” He sniffed. “Clever beings, minds of their own, but a predisposition to doing demonic stuff.”

“Predisposition is such a heavy term.” Aziraphale thought aloud. “I’d rather think it was, ahem, due to a successful temptation of a certain serpent.”

His cheeks colored, and he was suddenly thankful for the sheep to look at. “Yeah, no. They would’ve gotten that fruit in no time, angel. I was just delivering temptation.”

They both grew quiet, until the waitress brought Aziraphale his soup and, to no one’s surprise, a coffee for Crowley.

(Crowley thought it was thoughtful of his angel—which he swatted away strongly. He didn’t need to entertain thoughts like those.)

“You’re upset because you didn’t need to pitch in the temptation.” Aziraphale murmured quietly as he swirled his soup. He didn’t need to cool it in such a mundane way, but he did. It entranced Crowley, just how Aziraphale’s voice affected him. “Humans surprise you a lot of times, dear. Would’ve thought that having these events occur without your doing is… well, a _given.”_

He didn’t like how he had seen through him in one go. “Makes life miserable. I can’t think of worthwhile demonic acts when humans are exercising their bloody free will and killing each other because of it, angel.”

“Concept of a governing body has never been new, though.” Aziraphale pointed out, and he started eating. “Relinquishing their rights of freedom ever since—what, Rome? And a foreign power is ruling them. The tariff has been hurting them. Of _course_ they want someone of their own to rule, it was only a matter of time. How they will achieve it will be their own doing as well. I’d love for them to talk it out, but the King…” Aziraphale trailed off, sighing.

“Powdered wigs.” He’s been exposed to them. They’re as greedy as the bourgeoisie in France. “

Aziraphale nodded. “Greed doesn’t need a demon to manifest. Usually it’s just the usurpation of too much power which shows up in the most blatant way. Not the people want freedom.” Crowley made a noise of affirmation, the angel hitting the problem dead center.

“We’ve been encountering the same thing. Humans don’t need an angel to tell them that being slaved by others is wrong. It just takes… well, time. Been frustrating, mind you.” He chuckled, lighting up the room unintentionally. Or maybe Crowley’s sight. He didn’t know. “Humans are exceptionally great at using their minds and there’s a lot of them.”

“Pests to tempt.” Crowley snorted. “I couldn’t take watching hundreds of people dying again but now with those weapons. No finesse.”

“Plenty of finesse.” Aziraphale countered, and Crowley belatedly realized that maybe his angel had handled a gun before. It was a sobering thought. “Not as unfortunate as the guillotine. What a crude way to die.”

“Humans are the only ones to create those contraptions, angel.” He smirked, and against his will, he knows why Aziraphale had been chatting him up. “You’re a bastard, angel. I know what you’re trying to do.”

The angel just sipped his drink way too innocently. “I didn’t say anything, dear boy.”

Oh, he didn’t need to say anything. Crowley instigated the bloody Industrial Revolution because he was complaining about how agricultural products were boring to just watch and not mass produce. Some humans thought it was pretty nice and suddenly started developing the idea. Aziraphale, the sociable introvert that he is, proceeded to learn information about said industry and had teased Crowley for giving the Fruit of Knowledge again. All back to how the demon gave humans a reason to explore. It was this same talk again—and _sacre bleu,_ as the French say. _Mon ange, je’taime._

The angel always knew to cheer him up even if he had witnessed the worst day of his life.

“Oh, you’re smiling.” Aziraphale noticed, and he wiggled happily in his seat. “Are you going to take it as a completed task, with—ahem, _your_ influence?”

Aziraphale had a knowing smile, and Crowley could only think, _Go—Sa—Satan._ He was _totally_ going to get it as the bad deed of the day. Probably the next few years by his estimate, actually, because the colonies are readying themselves in their own ways and it’ll explode in a few; _yes_ he was going to rub it in Hastur, Ligur, and bloody _Beelzebub_ in his presentations.

He’s going to make Aziraphale _proud._

But before that—

“I know about this new food that they’re making fancy,” Crowley said in lieu of betraying any of his thoughts. “Want to try crepes from France’s provinces?”

Aziraphale’s twinkled. “Why, I’d love to.”

**\--**

**4\. September 2002**

Well, he was two years in the sixth millennium and so far, he’s experienced enough. 2000 was weird; humanity was celebrating for the lack of society crashing due to the Y2K bug, which was a thing, Crowley supposed. He kind of trusted that there were competent humans who had the sense to relieve an algorithm they themselves created, but then again, a lot of humanity were idiots who didn’t fact-check before screaming their heads off in panic.

Then there was the boom of technology, of which he was _pretty sure_ would become even _more_ technological in a few years or so.

Including, of course, the magnificent television and the dormant internet. He particularly got tetchy with the news, which was a _fantastic_ cesspool of everything negative with the dash of positive.

There were numerous news reports for politics as well. It hurt his head sometimes, to listen to the droll of politician after politician, exposed for corruption or greed. Then murders and war. Lots of killing. Lots of intrepid humans that made him gag from the disgust.

Having a television was the worst thing, and by this rate, if there even gets an easier way to show news like this, he might try disabling connections one day. Just to see London burn for a while, show them a smidgen of the Y2K bug they had been paranoid about.

There was also coverage of the Queen and the Royal Family sometimes, but that was sometimes.

Today, he had secured himself in a café corner, staring into nothingness. His Starbucks coffee lay in front of him, cold.

It was one of _those_ times where he seemed just—mad at Her. Mad at the blasted God that was supposed to—love everything, not whatever bullshit he’s been seeing in the news. He _knows_ the news focuses on the bad things because usually it’s to spread awareness, but he’s not stupid. He knows people with power always have an agenda like their _Creator—_

It was stupid. He knew that. To blame someone he couldn’t understand, or probably wasn’t even listening to him. He’s been alive and present for six thousand years, and he’s seen so much, but he’s still a _baby_ at whatever game She’s playing.

And he hates it. Questions it. Why did he fall? For asking questions?

It wasn’t even the news that tipped him over the edge.

It was the _plants,_ and that was stupid, and it was just so irrational that he _hated_ himself. It wasn’t even _their_ fault. The plants were innocently sitting on their sills, doing their plant thing. Exchanging carbon dioxide to oxygen and drinking up nutrients to feed themselves. Doing their job. Being _plants._ Like how they were created. Nothing _wrong._

Then an earthquake hit, and it _wasn’t even that strong,_ but for some reason, when he heard crashing from the living room, they were on the ground.

They were on the ground, ceramic pots shattered, helpless, and they were alone, and burning, and burning, and _burning— and really, the earthquake wasn’t even that strong._ They were just doing their jobs. Maybe some were a bit too un-plant-like and some were more, but they were plants and they were doing their best to do it. _Is that how you saw it? Saw me misbehaving and gave me an ultimatum to fall with them? Because I hung with the wrong crowd?_

He wasn’t aware that he’d been screaming till his throat felt scratched.

He was a mess and he needed to cool his head, and somehow he found himself walking to Starbucks.

He curled his arms in front of him and forced his mind to shut up. His blessed mind, probably—probably created to _question,_ if he thought about it more. She wasn’t stupid to put their…whatever, essence-DNA in a bin that had a label of _INQUISITIVE. DOUBTFUL._

No one designed supposedly official workers and helpers of God as _those_ traits. Those were the worst. He got the inquisitive characteristics and got hit with a hint of doubt. _That_ made him fall?

He grumbled and hissed to himself, putting on his headphones and cranking up his music player volume to the nth degree. Tried to drown the thoughts through music. _Drown it, like he drowned in a pit full of sulfur,_ he thought, and he was raising his hand to change the damn CD when someone caught his hand.

“Dear…”

“Shut up.” He hissed, wanting to stay alone. “Go away.”

“Crowley.” The angel on his side admonished, and gently, he removed his earphones. Aziraphale sidled onto the seat in front of him, which made him grumble even more. “Bad day?”

“Obviously.” He scathingly said, unable to extinguish the fire that has been building up and been stewing in since this morning. He ignored Aziraphale’s shocked and hurt look, because he didn’t feel like entertaining the angel. He’s not going to entertain _anything._ He wants to stay alone.

Aziraphale watched him closely, then nodded. “You know where I am.” He murmured, brushing his shoulder. Crowley resisted the urge to lean into the touch.

He must be having it worse today because Aziraphale leaving him wasn’t right. He was supposed to—

He held out his hand and trapped Aziraphale’s wrist with it.

Aziraphale must’ve understood and stopped. (And known. He knew him emotionally, knew how to wreck him and build him with the right words, but was too kind to do so. Was too caring to do so. It’ll only take him desperation to hurt him.) 

Crowley clutched his wrist tightly, and he knew his grip would’ve hurt a normal person.

But Aziraphale only faced him gently, and looked at him straight in the eyes, despite the sunglasses. Straight into his essence, unlike any kind of human. Any kind of demon or angel. Then, realization dawned on the angel, which morphed into serious, quiet and calm empathy.

Aziraphale sat down and clasped his hands around Crowley’s, and closed his eyes.

Crowley watched him quietly, not quite up to explaining. He hoped that the angel wouldn't mind if he saw him staring.

He’s always found Azirapahle fascinating because...Aziraphale knew how to understand his pain, even if he couldn’t really fathom it.

Crowley wouldn't prefer it any other way.

Even before everything, he took in the feelings of others and tried to make it right. Hated death and war as much as he did, but unlike Crowley who knew it was wrong _because_ it was wrong, Aziraphale knew it was wrong because he _felt_ it was wrong. He took in Heaven’s justifications like a good soldier, which Crowley had always despised, but Aziraphale never agreed. He never approved of the Flood, any massacre, any war, any untoward and unkind act made by Heaven, Hell or humanity.

Always tried to mend Heaven's "plan" in a small gesture, somehow. Lessen the blow, by helping to save some kids from the Flood, or maybe protecting downed soldiers and giving them miracles to stay alive even in the trenches. A memorable one was the celebration of Christmas despite the war, providing relief towards both sides even for a moment.

He always wanted the best for everyone, not in a naïve way. Aziraphale believed in everyone in an unshakeable manner, choosing to do good because it was good. Never as an angel, though had he sometimes used the title to mask Heaven’s shortcomings. Never out of ignorance.

Always out of love.

It had irked him, several times. How on many occasions, this angel would excuse Her decree, of Heaven’s order. How he’d accept silently how the angels believed the order would be. Crowley saw through the farce—been the bloody reason why he asked some questions—and he used to think that Aziraphale was the same ignorant angel that he’d think everyone would be.

But no, Aziraphale was different. Always has been. He understood the world and loved it, and sometimes even questioned it. Yet he never seemed to Fall, because there was something so innately strong in this soft angel. He was so faithful to the Lord’s Plan, the Ineffable Plan as he called it. He was faithful, and he believed.

In times like these, Crowley could only believe too. Not in Her, nor Her Plan. But to Aziraphale, with his steady will to understand a demon.

Yet he will never be able to fully do so.

To Aziraphale, being one of the Fallen was a brand of being a former angel, yet strayed away from the light. They weren’t the same but they had the same Creator. To Aziraphale, he didn’t comprehend the light year fall from the planes of Heaven towards Hell’s. He would’ve never understood.

And Crowley would make sure that he would never, _ever_ understand.

Yes, he will be able to show and tell his experience, and Aziraphale, the kind and empathic angel that he was, would try to live in his words. He’ll do his best to deconstruct, reconstruct, process and turn the situation to how he could understand. However, he will never understand it till he’d Fall himself.

Aziraphale wouldn’t fall even if the world shook him to the core. He won’t Fall, and Crowley believed in it.

He won’t, because even if he had lost faith in God for a long time, he never will when it comes to Aziraphale.

**_\--_ **

**5\. Bar (during the Apocalypse), 2019  
**

Well, everyone has gone down, down, _down,_ and Crowley’s first and last thought was: fuck it.

Who cares if the world burns?

He was—being a noisy drunk. Someone was reprimanding him on the side.

 _Fuck you,_ he wanted to say, but he was—his angel has him mellowed out from being an aggressive drunk because all he said was _ngk._ That didn’t mean he wasn’t allowed to think about potential responses. _Everything will turn into a pile of goo after this so let me have this drink, you twat._

What was the meaning of the world existing if the only thing that should’ve existed beside him was _dead?_

Or whatever the fuck happened to his angel. And yeah, _his angel,_ yeah, _he’s claiming it,_ because they were on _their side damn it,_ no matter how the angel denied it. Always been on his side. Should’ve been on his side. Would’ve been on his side if he was fast enough. Fuck the, “you go too fast for me, Crowley,” he would say. He should’ve gone faster. Should’ve been _faster_ and maybe the forces of Hell wouldn’t have _killed him first,_ someone—

He downed another bottle. No more… fancy wine glass or some shit. Nothing. This was vodka with the alcohol cranked up to the nth degree and he’s going to get shit-faced drunk in front of the Apocalypse and he’ll face it _with dignity._

Probably by chucking a bottle to the nearest angel who’d find him here, or however Heaven and Hell would start their bloody fight. He didn’t know.

Aziraphale was calling him, telling him something _important,_ but he was _preoccupied,_ he was—he was trying to lead Hastur away, and he got stuck in his bloody stupid monologue he cheated off from some movie he liked, and now Aziraphale wasn’t _here anymore._

So yeah. Who cares if the world burns?

As if to answer him in the most gut-wrenching way possible, the skies thundered and the air crackled into a burnt-ozone smell, which, what.

He’s not seeing right. He is _not seeing right._

But he knows that face. Seen it over six thousand years, in fact, and an hour or two ago he thought he was alone, but—

“Aziraphale,” he whispered, unbelieving.

Also made him put down his sunglasses because _what the fuck—_

“Wha—,“ He choked as he tried to figure out if it was his vision that was doing the weird undulating wiggly vision or Aziraphale wasn’t really.... _“Are you here?”_

“Good question,” probably-Aziraphale answered, and he could make out the furrow of his eyebrows despite his hazy understanding of whatever was going on. “Not certain, never done this before.”

It must be the vodka, Crowley desperately thought as Aziraphale apologized—for some reason. As if it was his fault that he was…in the netherworld and he was up here getting drunk off his ass. He didn’t need the angel to say sorry, he needed to know _what was happening and what happened to him._ Who did it, who _killed you, you blessed idiot—_

His heart clenched when Aziraphale’s unsure tone—that one that he’s always tried to remove when it’s just them _._

“Did you go to Alpha Centauri…?” He was looking around, hesitantly.

“Nah…ah.” He admitted, voice cracking. “Stuff happened.” 

He swallowed nervously, mouth twitching dangerously downwards. “I lost my best friend.”

Take the hint, angel, he wanted to say, wanted to grab him by the lapels and shake him till he’s tired. _You bastard, I lost you._ _Please tell me you’re real._

“Oh.” A pause that lingered for a second too long that it made Crowley doubt for a second. “So sorry to hear that.”

His offish tone would be surprising to others, but Crowley _knew_ that tone. His eyes widened as he paid attention.

Crisp, direct, no nonsense. As always, the angel was considerate yet goal-driven, but he had a plan.

Aziraphale was in _game mode_ , and Crowley was always bad at imagining Aziraphale being that determined. Which meant that his voice was real. It made him want to chuck his bottle in celebration. But again, good manners instilled through six thousand years of good influence.

(For the imagination bit, he _has_ tried, because he’s _seen_ the angel face down the bloody _mafia_ and soldiers who wouldn’t listen to him. And tetchy customers.

In his imagination, it somehow always ended up with Aziraphale forgiving them, which, no. His angel was a bastard but a righteous one. He knows when he’s right and will do _everything_ to convince his roadblock.)

Thus, he has a plan.

He asks Crowley if he could get a book, but god damn it he wasn’t able to _save_ the bookshop, but he got a _souvenir—_ Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter—

\--and sees that the angel had figured everything out. Notes and scribbles in his handwriting to show where to go.

Aziraphale had always been clever. _This_ was why he had been calling earlier.

“Maybe I can inhabit yours…? Er. Angel and demon. Probably explode.”

Yes. He knows that he might explode if the angel even so much tried to inhabit his corporation. _He_ wouldn’t be able to handle it, and honestly, after his drinking spree, he didn’t need to hear the angel’s _tut tut_ yet.

Or he did. He missed him terribly.

His thoughts are a bloody _mess_ and he needs to sober up.

“We’ve both got to go to Tadfield and get a wiggle-on,” Aziraphale reminded as his voice started to fade. Crowley had a moment of fear, before reminding himself that _you’re both going there._

His mouth curled into a disarmed smile, the ones that show up when Aziraphale would use some outdated term like _two lamb shakes and a tail_ and _tickety-boo._ Out of habit, and _a habit that will continue, kiss my arse, Heaven and Hell,_ he asked, “ _what?”_

“Tadfield!” Aziraphale almost shouted, with the tone _I promise I’ll meet you there._ “Air base!”

 _I’ll meet you there as well,_ he thought as he rasped out his next words with a grin. “I heard that. It was the wiggle on!”

The wind quieted, and he was left alone. He snapped his fingers to get sober and stood up.

He’d entered this bar like a maniac who lost his best friend, which he _did,_ don’t wrong him.

Now, however, he knew that he wouldn’t be alone anymore.

**\--**

**+1: Aziraphale's Bookshop, A Year After Not-Apocalypse  
**

Nightmares didn’t frequent him that much, but it has been for the past few days, ever since the one year-anniversary of the delayed Armageddon came to pass.

At least nothing _really_ ended. Maybe a bit, like his demon-connection due to his detachment to Hell, because at least he had something to do with that.

Now he was a free demon; and a free retired demon-fallen angel-past angel- part snake being did not cope well with shifts in dreams.

He was used to dreamless ones, but his body had been through enough nightmares that it expected one despite everything. They usually involved his tryst in Heaven, the Archangels finding out them switching bodies, or Aziraphale still dying because his body was attached to his corporation by Adam (who, in those dreams, made their corporal forms like souls and hot glued it together).

They were all unpleasant, which was why he’s been up and sleepless for a while. And _yes,_ he didn’t need to sleep, but it was his favorite past time and it’s been frustrating for him that until now nothing _significant_ has happened, something he’s been waiting for but _hasn’t,_ it hasn’t—and he _hates_ for not being strong enough to straight out ask Aziraphale _can you kiss me?_

It was probably one of the worst reasons to ponder upon in his 6000 years on Earth as well. Humanity, Heaven and Hell sucked already, he didn’t need this… this _doubt_ to linger in him, to plague his nightmares. He could handle doubting God and humanity. Should he even think about this—

It was putrid. It must’ve been his past angel talking because _no_ that was the most disgusting thought he’s ever had.

 _Or_ it must’ve been the alcohol he left in his system last night after getting _way_ too inside his head. Aziraphale had been trying to calm him down, the angel expertly maneuvering him to the Bookshop and locking the door of the Bentley. He had gotten the ‘ _don’t drink and drive’_ reminder and had been tucked into Aziraphale’s (unused) bed. But he was awake, at bloody arse o’ clock and he couldn’t go back to sleep, so wasn’t it _great._

He sat up and almost got whiplash from the speed of his thoughts.

Aziraphale’s _bed?_

When the bloody hell did he end up in his angel’s _bed?_

He racked his brain to tell him what happened, squinting hard. _I had a nightmare—a god damn ninth-circle-of-hell kind of nightmare, which was fantastic—and I, the idiot that I am, probably went somewhere._

_And then…_

And then there was Aziraphale. He couldn’t remember what went in between but he remembered being on his respective couch, and then a reassuring and concerned tilt of a wine bottle to his haphazardly-held glass. Which might’ve broken a few times here and there. His angel was patient.

He paused his thinking, and looked at the bed. _Tartan,_ of course, but _bloody hell,_ it was as soft as he liked his sheets.

But tartan, a bed. _Aziraphale._

Aziraphale had _gone_ to him when he was trying to drown out the nightmares, no prompts at all. He _went_ to him and gently took—care, it was _care,_ his angel took care of him. He listened to his rants and he could remember the ghost of a hug. He could recall a little prayer as well.

 _Aziraphale went to me,_ he thought, eyes wide. _In all my years alive, he’d do that when… and he stopped when…_

Filled with purpose as he slipped down the bed, more purpose than fulfilling a task of demon or an angel or whatever, he shuffled downstairs to the actual bookshop. He could hear the angel’s puttering in front, and realized that Aziraphale had probably carried him up to the bed upstairs and _tucked him in bed._

He stilled, breath catching in his throat.

 _Aziraphale went to me,_ he repeated again to himself, a whisper that he needed to hear with his own ears for assurance.

His angel went to him when he… when he needed help.

It must be the right time, right? Whatever made him too fast wasn’t there anymore? Whatever rift that may have formed ever since his request for Holy Water has reformed? Could he actually…

“Angel?” He called, heart doing little staccato beats that he didn’t appreciate. He didn’t move from the stairs. “Aziraphale?”

It took a moment, but Aziraphale’s head poked from one of the bookcases. “Oh! You’re awake! I didn’t think you’d be up so early though…” He walked towards his line of sight and gazed at him. Something crossed his face and his lips pulled into a frown. “Oh dear. You’re up so early, it hasn’t even been—“, he looked to the side. “Five hours. Not another nightmare?”

Crowley took a second to answer because he was being enveloped by something akin to the warmest embrace of Love he could ever had bar from his past. “No.” He admitted, and fully descended down the stairs. That apparently surprised the angel, and he cleared his throat. “My body got used to being subjected to nightmares for the past few weeks, kind of auto-piloted to wake me up. Sorry for the ruckus I created.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Dear, not at all. I’d always be there if you need me, and you clearly did.”

He stepped near the angel, and while the angel didn’t really step _back,_ he took a safe distance between them. Allowing him his space. _Someone,_ he loved this angel. _Always be there if I need him._

“Do you remember?” Aziraphale asked softly, concerned, oblivious to his wild train of thoughts.

The tone wasn’t unsurely, nor hesitantly. It was curious, careful, and considering. _Caring._

He’s always been like that.

“I had the best dreams that I could ever had.” Crowley murmured, even if he didn’t remember his dream _exactly._ But he remembered a relieved, happy and joyful Aziraphale, and that was _enough._ It was enough to make him live again. He’s seeing it right now as well, and it was the most jarring yet most welcome thing he’d ever embrace in his life.

“Oh, I’m so glad.” Aziraphale whispered, clasping his hands in joy. He then shifted his weight, looking at him. “I hope you’re okay.”

 _More than okay,_ he wanted to say. _Ridiculously alright._ However, as he looked more—met gazes with the angel—he realized that something important was being asked in that gaze. It held conviction, it held strength, and it held a question.

 _Did I do okay?_ Aziraphale’s soul seemed to ask through his stormy eyes, the hidden angelic light pulsing in passion. _Was I able to protect you from harm?_

 _Oh,_ he thought, and he smiled, smiled wider and more genuine that he’s ever had before.

He’s always said that he was Aziraphale’s knight in shining armor, but he’s never realized—never knew how much his angel was his, as well. Always there to save him from bouts of reality becoming too bleak, too harsh, too unforgiving even for a demon. Always there to get him going, to have faith in him. His guardian angel.

He’s had dreams before. Nightmares as well. But reality has always been better with Aziraphale by his side.

“Yeah, angel.” He said reverently, _faithfully,_ and Aziraphale took a step towards him. “I’ve always been, because of you. Thank you.”

Aziraphale had that familiar knowing look in his eyes, one that Crowley used to shy away from, but now accepted wholeheartedly.

Then Aziraphale held him, soft and languid, love and care radiating from his hands; Crowley reveled and basked in the warmth of his pillar, his support, his protector.

And, as Crowley closed his eyes shut, he thought—

For the first time in his whole life, he’s never been more content with how reality was.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed it, feel free to give kudos or comment, or talk to me in Tumblr/Twitter, I'm artist-in-space :D


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